Bodywash

Your scent's an invasion
like no boy, no body,
has ever done.
Night curls round you,
dreams' scent taunting insomnia, and
I stare at the ceiling,
stare at the back of your skull, and
eventually I pass out. Wake up
alone with hands smelling like
you, gone, down
between bars of flesh and
morning sunlight and
gray rain,
leaving me arched on the couch
knowing that you like to see this
but I'm shy.
Even though I love you, I'm embarrassed of myself.
Why is it so much easier to watch than to show?